


to alter or to abolish

by light_loves_the_dark



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Queen Sansa, Angst, F/M, I Kill a Lot of Favs, Littlefinger Wins, Oops, Petyr vs Littlefinger, Romance, Sansa Being a Boss, Sorry Not Sorry, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9704474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: “it doesn’t matter what we want. once we get it, then we want something else.”Sansa Stark has the iron throne and the people’s love. Petyr Baelish has her ear and her body and everyone in the Seven Kingdoms of any import knows this.So how is he not satisfied?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So a couple of things:
> 
> 1) In the first 500 words, I literally kill everyone who I think could prevent Sansa from ascending the throne. I rushed through it a little but hopefully it's something a little unique. 
> 
> 2) This story spans at least three years. So if the Petyr you see when shit hits the fan seems a little OOC, that's why. I didn't have the time to include all the meta that explains it, but I'm going to go ahead a warn you that I characterize Petyr a little differently. Also, Petyr characterizes himself as not the total chaotic neutral that he is, so there's that as well. 
> 
> 3) With that said, we only get Petyr's thoughts in this fic. Suffice to say that his perception of Sansa and what she's thinking is NOT AT ALL what is actually going on in her head. Don't forget, though we love him, Baelish is undeniably creepy. 
> 
> 4) Yes, the title is from the US Declaration of Independence. The full line reads: "That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government." 
> 
> 5) I hope you guys enjoy! I've never written for these two so I'd love any feedback you have.

It ends up being rather simple, really.

 

Daenerys Targaryen comes to Westeros with her dragons and ships and army, and the Lannisters and Tyrells are swept away in the ensuing madness. Petyr is there during the peace talks, where the newly minted queen strikes a deal with her nephew, Jon Snow, for control of the North. Oh, he does not listen to a word of it; Varys had already informed him of the inevitable outcome. His old friend watches him carefully, certain that his death will follow this conversation. Littlefinger is a liability.

 

He cannot run, though part of him agrees with Varys. In this room are the only two things Petyr Baelish wants: one of which is power, and the other the beautiful redheaded young woman who sits regally next to her previous half-brother, now her cousin.

 

Much to Varys and his surprise, Petyr does not die in that room. His connection to the Vale, and little Lord Robert, saves him.

 

Nor does he die in the ensuing war against what lies beyond the wall. He watches Jon Snow fall at the hand of the enemy, and he watches Daenerys run madly into the fray after the death of her last dragon. He watches Arya Stark run her brother’s sword through the final white walker, a memory he will never forget –  not because of the tears in the girl’s eyes but the screams of the girl beside him. It is the first time he has held her so close since the crypts of Winterfell a year before. His hands catch her waist when she lunges for the battlefield, and despite the carnage before them he feels nothing but surprised pleasure when she allows herself to sink against him, eyes on where they saw her brother fall. It is a small gesture of trust, but it is something on which he can build.

 

After the battle, it takes very little maneuvering to get what he wants. At his love’s request, Brandon Stark is made Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North; Petyr arranges an engagement between the youngest Stark and Lyanna Mormont when she comes of age. It will be a strong match, with a strong connection to the throne in the South.

 

He finds Tyrion Lannister standing, grief-struck, next to the body of Daenerys. When Petyr brings up the subject of the iron throne, Tyrion is so caught up in denying him the throne that when Petyr pretends to throw out a name at random, the dwarf does not see the glint in his eye.

 

And so, in the absence of anyone else who makes sense, they take Sansa Stark down to King’s Landing to be crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Petyr looks on hungrily as the septon places a circlet of gold and diamonds on the fiery crown of her hair. Sansa’s eyes meet his, and he does not bother to hide his hunger. She is the only person in Westeros who knows what he wants, and he has tired of hiding it from her.

 

_Long live the Queen!_

 

Well, he thinks to himself. Simple.

 

-

 

After the coronation, he finds her in the garden, in the same nook where, years ago, he promised to be a friend to a friendless young girl. Her eyes narrow when they find his, and he knows the promise he intends to sell this evening will not be believed as easily.

 

“Your Grace,” he greets, bowing deeply. Sansa makes eye contact with Brienne of Tarth, who stands guard, motioning for her to leave them. The stoic woman does as commanded, but remains within eyesight. Petyr knows that this is as good a chance as he will receive.

 

“Lord Baelish,” she replies softly. “I suppose there is a reason you would seek out the queen before she chooses her small council?”

 

He allows himself a small smirk; she knows him better than she thinks. “My lady,” he acquiesces, “I thought your Grace would allow me to plead my case.” She nods, clasping her hands in front of her body, and waits. “I have been your protector, your uncle, your father, and your friend. I am presently and always a man who loves you. I will not ask for your hand in marriage, your Grace, because it would not benefit you to give it to me, and I endeavor to only act to your benefit. But your Grace – _Sansa –_ if you would do me the honor of _making_ me your hand, I swear you will never have need to doubt my loyalty.”

 

He takes a deep breath, and realizes that sometime amidst his speech he had stepped closer to her. They are a mere two feet apart, and when he inhales he catches the slight scent of lemons on the breeze. “You are full of pretty words as well as pretty pictures, Lord Baelish,” Sansa responds with a sliver of ice in her voice. “You were all those things, true, but you were also my betrayer, and you are also Littlefinger. You told me once that you wished to sit on my throne; has that desire faded?”

 

He sighs. “Both the common people and the nobility have no love for me. It would not be a good move for either of us, and the game never ends. You are on the iron throne, my queen, and I am by your side. That is enough.”

 

Sansa takes a moment to study him, trying to discern his intentions. He learned a long time ago to keep them hidden, but if anyone would be privy to them it would be her. She is wise to doubt him; he might have created her, but it was in his own image, and he could never be called obtuse. Finally, she exhales. “I don’t have time to argue with you, Lord Baelish. I don’t trust Littlefinger.”

 

“I am not only Littlefinger,” he retorts, his voice slightly raised. He takes another step towards her. She does not back down.

 

“I know,” she follows immediately; she sounds exasperated. A tendril of hope winds itself through his chest.

 

Before he can follow that tendril, the Queen huffs in a very unqueenly manner, crossing her arms. “I am tired, Lord Baelish. You will learn of my choices tomorrow, like everyone else.” She makes to leave, but he stops her with a hand on her arm. He hears rather than sees Brienne drawing her sword.   

 

“ _Sansa-”_

 

His love shakes her head at the Queensguard while shaking his hand off her. “No,” she says simply. “I will speak to you tomorrow, after my announcement. I expect you will want to strike a deal.”

 

He can tell she wants him to be curious, but he doesn’t give her the pleasure. He stays silent as she walks around him, leaving him to stare out at the sea. He turns abruptly when he thinks that he hears her speak again, but she is already gone. He turns the two parting words over and over in his head, attempting to find her angle.

 

_“Goodnight, Petyr.”_

-

 

She is not wrong.

 

The new Masters of Coin and Laws, as well as the Grand Maester, are all men from the Citadel in Oldtown, undoubtedly products of Sansa attempting to curry favor with the Hightowers. The ruling family of Oldtown assumed power in the vacuum left by the Tyrells, and enough secrets are known of them between Petyr and Varys, who Petyr was frustrated to find living after the war, to keep them in check. The Master of Ships is given to Tyrion, and Varys resumes the position of Master of Whispers only for as long as it takes for Arya Stark to learn the ropes. Petyr is startled at this turn of events, and wonders if the terms were Sansa’s or Varys’. Brienne of Tarth is unsurprisingly made Lord Commander, and Sansa does not meet Petyr’s eyes as she announces him as Hand of the Queen.

 

He finds her immediately after the ceremony and leads her away under the pretense of business. The feeling of tangible power in his hands, which now itch to wrap around her, leaves him high and impulsive. They leave Brienne in the corridor outside the Tower of the Hand, and as soon as they are alone he can no longer contain himself: he backs her against a wall and kisses her hard and short.

 

He only presses into her for a moment, eager to discuss her terms and confident this conversation will go exactly how he wants if the way she presses back into him can be believed. “You were wise to keep me away from the finances,” he tells her after pulling away, and she cannot suppress a small smile. They are so close that they share a breath, and he notices that somehow, she still smells of lemons. “And you were wise to know I’d deal with you,” he adds. She presses a hand against his chest in an echo of their moment so long ago in the Godswood, and he acquiesces, taking a small step back. 

 

“What do you want?” He asks her, raising an eyebrow.

 

She takes a deep breath, and he braces himself. “I want your honesty,” she begins, “and that is essential. If I catch you lying to me about matters of the kingdom, I will have you executed.”

 

He opens his mouth to ask her why only matters of the kingdom, but she waves a hand to quiet him.

 

“I will not expect you to be honest about personal matters; that is impossible for you and your personal intent does not concern me any longer.” The words are wielded to hurt, and he is surprised to find that they do. “I want you to act to the best of your ability, and keep me informed of your plans. You will not tear this kingdom apart the way you did the last one.”

 

“Lastly,” she exhales slowly, and he can tell this is the important one, “I will not take a husband. I don’t care what you have to do to make that happen. You will arrange a good marriage for Arya when she is ready, and her child will rule upon my death.” She pauses, her eyes boring into his with intensity that he has never seen from her before. “I trust you will do a better job for her than you did for me, Lord Baelish.”

 

He is the one to break their stare, fists clenching at the thought of Ramsey Bolton. “Of course,” he says hoarsely, before clearing his throat. “My turn.”

 

She nods, and at the realization that he has not offered her a seat he leads her to the settee next to the desk. She sits and he follows, turning so his knee brushes the fabric of her dress.

 

“First,” he says, hoping that beginning with a quip will endear him to her, “Call me Petyr, at least in private.” He is gifted with a small smirk, and it dawns on him that refusing his given name might be her way of teasing him. He puts that thought aside, because the chance that it’s the alternative – that she is still upset after his mistake with the Boltons – is equally as likely.

 

She agrees, and waits for him to continue. “I want you to come to me with your doubts and thoughts and everything else, my queen.” He lays a hand on the settee, leaning towards her with eyes glittering. “No one in this castle is better suited to address your needs; I promise you.”

 

Sansa leans away from him slightly, and he knows she is cognizant of his hand’s slow path across the space between them. She does not stop him, and his hand reaches the silk of her gown. He runs his fingers along the fabric, barely skimming the outside of her thigh, and neither of them are pretending not to watch his progress.

 

“Everything else?” She repeats, her voice quiet but heavy with something he cannot identify. She lays a hand on top of his, stopping his movement, yet she does not take it away.

 

“Everything,” he confirms, his voice raspy, and he leans in to kiss her again. Unlike the one against the door, she truly returns it, cautiously reaching up to run a hand through his hair and across his jaw. He cannot help the groan that forces its way out of his chest, bringing up his other hand to cup her cheek. He mindlessly cards soft strands of red through his fingers, delighting in the Tully coloring as he always has. There is no mistaking her for Catelyn however, not anymore.

 

It is that odd thought that causes him to withdrawal briefly from her arms, but it disappears along with the rest of his world when she pulls him back to her.

 

On the other side of the door, Brienne shuts her eyes tightly.

 

-

 

The kingdom meanders towards peace. The crown is undoubtedly heavy, but the whole of King’s Landing sees that Sansa Stark wears it well. She is all wise looks and subtle grace to the world, but at night she sheds the persona like a cloak and gives herself to him.  

 

He calls her my queen and my love in equal measure, reserving his favorite “ _sweetling_ ” for moments of vulnerability. She bestows her true smiles on him, and gives him the notoriety that he craves. Just the week before she had placed her hand on his thigh during a small council meeting when leaning over to speak with him. In front of the whole, shocked council. He stands straighter at the memory.

 

“You look very pleased with yourself.”

 

Petyr turns to meet the gaze of a man he might have at one point considered his greatest rival. Now, with his ship pointed South, Varys seems little more than an annoying fly.

 

“I am,” he admits, not able or even trying to keep the smugness from his tone. “In the interest of honesty, I must say it is good to see the back of you, my friend.”

 

Varys chuckles, clasping his hands in front of him as they both gaze up at the throne. There is a moment of silence, and Petyr can see the wheels turning in the eunuch’s mind. “Well,” he says finally, “you no longer seem to be counting any swords.”

 

Petyr smirks. Varys is correct; Petyr is instead imagining the scene that will take place in an hour from now, when his beautiful queen will take her rightful place as she appoints Arya Stark as Master of Whispers. “I have what I want,” he replies, “which is more than what I can say for you.”

 

Varys hums, and Petyr realizes the eunuch is smiling. “You are changed, Littlefinger,” he observes as he turns to leave the room.

 

Petyr grins, refusing to rise to the bait. “You’re right. I am the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“You’re right,” Varys echoes back. “The most powerful _man_.”

 

-

 

For months, he suspects Varys was simply sowing seeds of discord. Sansa makes her plays and he makes his, and some moves they pull together.  A year and a half goes by before Petyr truly understands his old friend’s words. Before he realizes that Varys had been _warning_ him.

 

To distract from the absence of the expected royal wedding, the Crown organizes ball after festival after minor noble wedding. Petyr keeps his word, and the whispers about a king-less queen are either non-existent or quiet enough that Arya and he deem them as unimportant. The girl doesn’t like him, not at all, but she knows that he looks out for his best interests and they both know that Sansa is one of them.

 

They are attending one such minor noble wedding when it happens. The queen takes a small taste of her wine just before her sister appears and knocks the goblet from her hand, spilling it onto the tablecloth, the fabric staining deep red.

 

“Did you drink?” The girl demands, ignoring all polite address. Her eyes are wide in fear. “Did you?”

 

Sansa manages to nod before she begins to sway. From his adjacent seat, Petyr catches her around the waist, her head falling into the crook between his neck and shoulder in a poor mockery of where she had lain the night before. She is only in his arms for a moment before Brienne sweeps her up and makes for the keep. After a few urgent whispers to him about the nature of the assassination attempt, Arya follows them.

 

It only takes Petyr several hours, and many reminders of Sansa’s continued heartbeat – thankfully she had barely ingested the poison –  to find the culprit: a sell-sword from Essos who is angry at the world for not descending into madness at the death of the Dragon Queen. Though Petyr’s hands itch to strangle the man, he thinks back to the broken body of the Targaryen girl. He imagines Sansa’s expressionless face gazing up at him in the place of Daenerys’, and he understands.

 

It does not stop him from ordering the execution. Contented by knowledge of his queen’s recovery, he gladly watches the man’s head roll. The crowd cheers; they love their Northern, peace-bringing Queen almost as much as they love the sight of a gruesome death.

 

After the duty of the Hand is finished, he makes his way to his queen’s bedside faster than he would care to admit, shooing away maids and maesters and well-wishers. He has no control over Arya, however, who sits quietly next to her sister, sharpening her sword. Petyr drops into the chair on the other side of the bed, pulling out his writing materials.

 

There is silence for a long time before Arya takes pity on him: “She will be fine,” the girl reminds him, noticing how his eyes leave his work every minute or so to check.

 

“I know,” he admits quietly, “the Grand Maester says she will wake up on the morrow.” He pauses, studying the dark-haired Stark across the bed. “You saved her life. I am in your debt.”

 

Arya looks surprised, then knowing. “She is my sister, and though I hate her sometimes, I would never wish her ill.” She pauses, eyes focusing on Sansa’s peaceful expression. “My sister is a great queen,” she admits, and it looks like the honesty physically pains her, “though I will kill you if you tell her I said that.”

 

Petyr cannot help but agree, focusing on the way the queen’s chest rises and falls. Something he had not realized was tightly bound loosens in his chest for the first time that day, and he freezes at the sensation that he has not felt for a long time.

 

Arya watches him carefully, so he schools his expression into something more amiable. “I would not dare – I know your sword to have a far worse bite than most knights, my lady.”

 

Arya nods, satisfied.

 

They descend into silence for the rest of the night, and the only sounds for hours are the scratch of quill on parchment, the ring of sword on whetstone, and the ever-turning wheels in Petyr Baelish’s mind.

 

-

 

Sansa finally begins to stir around midmorning the next day. Arya has gone, to investigate further plots that might have sprung out of the commotion yesterday. The best time to act against the crown, of course, is in the wake of disorder, and Arya learned from the best.

 

“Good morning, sweetling,” Petyr greets gently as she opens her eyes. He reaches forward to take her hand in his, unwilling to wait very long to reveal his hand. If yesterday taught him anything, it is that the right time has to be now. She only reinforces his intentions when she does not pull away, and instead squeezes his hand softly.

 

“Petyr?” she reaffirms, her voice husky from sleep. “What happened?”

 

He tenses; this is not the topic of conversation he wishes to discuss with her. “It is settled,” he says sharply. “We can discuss it later.”

 

She raises an eyebrow, somehow managing to look imperious in her current state. He wonders at his sanity in finding a woman nearly dead so exceptionally appealing: her hair is sticking up in all directions, her clothing is haphazard, and he cannot imagine she smells so sweetly of lemons now. Still, he yearns for her.

 

Sansa Stark has been defying his expectations all her short life; why is he surprised that she is still so dear to him in even this condition?

 

He is drawn from his thoughts by her voice. “I recognize that look,” she tells him, and he cannot tell whether she sounds exasperated or playful. He hopes for the latter. “What do you want?” She asks.   


“I thought it would be obvious,” he replies, meeting her gaze knowingly. She uses her tongue to wet her lips, and his eyes flick down to her mouth. She sighs in annoyance, and Petyr recognizes his misstep.

 

“And _I_ thought I already gave you everything you wanted, _Petyr_ ,” she bites back. He cringes; it has been a long time since she has said his given name so distastefully. She pointedly looks down at his mouth the way he had done with her. “Including _that._ ”

 

He chuckles and brings up a hand to pick at one of her tangled red curls. He runs his fingers through it and rearranges it, untangled, on her shoulder, purposefully brushing the side of her breast. He is gifted with a shudder and a quick intake of breath. She cannot help it; after all this time, of course she desires him. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it, my love,” he reminds her softly.

 

 _My love,_ he thinks affectionately. After years, Petyr Baelish is ambitionless no longer. He wants more than her thoughts and her ear and her body. He thinks, next, he’d like her heart. He realized last night that he had already given her his.

 

“I’d like to alter the terms of our deal,” he says abruptly, his hand still tangled in hers.

 

Though she is pale and indisposed, Sansa still looks over him carefully before responding: “In what way, Petyr?”

 

“I love you.”

 

There is a beat of silence, then, quietly: “So you’ve said.”

 

He shakes his head. He is not lying, or stretching a truth. She is beautiful, witty, cunning, and an excellent partner in the game of thrones. She is not her mother; she is better. “Sweetling… _Sansa_ ,” he sighs, moving to cover their entwined hands with his free one, “I am in earnest.”

 

Sansa studies him for a long time, and he tries to keep eye contact. The naked vulnerability he shows her has only been seen by two people in the seven kingdoms: Sansa and her mother. He had calculated the risks of this demonstration all night, only to realize that his cards are not his own. He will gain nothing if he gives nothing. Still, even with his logic, he clutches her hand in both of his as if it is the only thing anchoring him to this world.

 

“You are, aren’t you,” she states quietly, and he is relieved to hear no doubt present. “You’re in love with me.” Sansa’s voice has an unmistakable odd quality to it, and Petyr watches her carefully. “How?” She asks finally.

 

He takes a deep breath, and releases it. “You are my equal… my better,” he admits, trying to spin this back his way. He can feel himself losing control of the conversation, and it unnerves him. He looks away, down at their hands. “When I see… when you walk into the room I care for nothing else. When I look at the iron throne, I can no longer imagine myself sitting there. I only see you. If this is not love, I do not know what is.”

 

He finally allows himself to meet her eyes, surprised to see tears clouding his favorite shade of blue. “Don’t cry, sweetling,” he murmurs, running a thumb across her cheek. “Don’t cry,” he repeats, “just love me back.” This is it. This is the moment he gets what he wants, and it has been years in coming despite the fact that he hadn’t realized it until yesterday.

 

There is a moment of silence as she dries her eyes. She looks straight at him without hesitance, almost through him. Finally, she sighs, but it is not of happiness or relief; it is full of reluctance. The victory he felt moments ago disappears so quickly that he wonders if it was ever present in the first place. Instead, he feels his whole body turn to ice, hung hopelessly in her claws. He remembers this feeling, this horrible, jarring sensation that is currently spreading its way through his frame. He knows what is coming.

 

“But I- I can’t… I don’t. Lord Baelish, I don’t love you.”

 

_There it is._

“I am sorry, Petyr.”

 

Rejection. He lets go of her hand as if it burned him. Somehow, he has fallen in love with her, and in his arrogance, he had forgotten along the way to make her fall in love with him. They could easily cause each other’s ruin with a few spilled secrets, all the way back to the death of Lysa Arryn to last week, when she ordered the assassination of a member of the Iron Bank. But the difference, now that the hope clouding his mind is gone, is laughingly apparent.

 

If she lost him, she would lose a great mind and a staunch supporter. She would lose someone who would bury a body for her and ask no questions. Maybe, if he stretches, she would lose her right hand, but she would still be Queen of the Andals.

 

If he lost her, the whole thing would fracture. He could never ascend the throne; no one would trust and listen to him the way she does. He would lose her and he would lose power. If there was anything left after her, he would burn it all to the ground.

 

Slowly and surely, he gathers the broken pieces of himself and tries to find a place inside himself that she has not invaded. Thinking of the odd note to her voice, he wonders if there is something she is not telling him.

 

He meets her bright blue, knowing eyes, and lets her see what she already knows. He lets her see, but _only_ because he has already let her in and only so he can _look._ For the first time in quite a while, Petyr Baelish is so surprised by what he sees that even the pain of her words is pushed to the back of his mind.

 

At first glance she seems indifferent, a little apologetic, but he has known her for years; deep in her eyes, he sees triumph. He has told a personal truth to an innocent girl from Winterfell who sees him as a hero, and now finds his truth in the hands of a broken and mended queen who has every reason to hate him. Her triumph and self-satisfaction in the face of his weakness is clear, and with it comes a realization that should invite vicious thoughts of her downfall, but only strikes him with a surprising bolt of lust:

 

_She’s playing him._

 

She values him too much to kill him, but she still wanted to _hurt_ him. She has played the game against him, and _won_.

 

It is almost as if a candle has been lit in his body. If it was love he felt for her before, then there is no word for the way he burns for her now. When Catelyn had broken his heart, he had hated her for her weakness and for his own vulnerability. Sansa, on the other hand, has shown him her strength, and he is somehow thriving on it despite the overwhelming need to retreat and lick his wounds. The strong desire to throw her down and take her overpowers even his own shame. He was wrong to think it would be enough to have her, or even to love her.

 

He wants to _consume_ her.

 

The thought is followed almost immediately by another, more pressing one, and it is the only thing preventing him from acting on the feelings that are flooding his mind: more than that, he wants her to _let_ him.

 

So instead, Petyr catches her hand in his and brings it to his mouth, his eyes matching the fire he sees in hers. She no longer hides; she is smart enough to know that he caught her.

 

“I will not give up, sweetling,” he murmurs over her knuckles. He runs his thumb over her wrist, delighting in the frantic flutter of her pulse even if he sees no weakness in her expression. He holds her gaze until he sees a flash of trepidation in her eyes. _Good._

He will find his way into her soul the way she has wormed her way into his. He allows himself to remember her insatiable kisses, her laughter at his dark and dry humor, and her smiles at their ruthless and successful political undertakings. She wants him, that much is clear. She likes him, trusts him, and admires his mind.

 

He remembers the genuine tears she had spilled in the wake of his declaration, and the way she had stumbled over her own harsh rejection. He had taught her himself that the best way to make someone hurt with words was to deliver them sharply and plainly, and she had faltered. His words had moved her. He had moved her.

 

Sansa’s eyes search his own, but he locks his plans away. His love for her shines through, as it always will now that it hangs between them, but he supposes that this will only help his cause.

 

“I didn’t presume that you would, my lord Hand, but our deal…” she trails off.

 

He picks up the thread easily. “Our deal will remain until _you_ call it off, my love,” he assures her. His voice is smooth and practiced, but his gaze is intense.

 

Sansa looks conflicted and not a little worried at how quickly he seemed to get over the pain of her refusal. The triumph is gone, and she is scrambling for a foothold. “Petyr,” she says, “I told you no. I will not change my mind.”

 

He smiles; he loves to watch her squirm. “Won’t you?” He asks.

 

 _I will make you beg,_ he thinks.

 

She sighs again, and he can tell she is still exhausted. “I apologize, my queen,” he adds, standing. “You are still recovering from a great ordeal. I will leave you for now.” He bends down to press a soft kiss to her shocked mouth, then moves for the door.   


“Petyr?” she calls him back softly, and for a moment she sounds like the young girl he saved all those years ago. He turns, raising an eyebrow. “Did you find the man who did this to me?”

 

His hands tighten into fists, and his expression turns serious. “I did.” A stillness fills the room as he gives her time to contemplate what he means. “He is dead, just like anyone who even thinks about touching you will be.” He watches a shiver run through her body, proudly recognizing desire and not fear. He smirks. “Do you believe me?”

 

Sansa does not answer, but her silence might as well be a confirmation. “I will not attend the council meeting today,” she says instead. “I trust you will not order any more executions without my approval?”

 

He bows slightly, but the smirk does not leave his face. “I will bring up supper for us tonight so I can advise you separately.” He pauses. “If it was not clear,” he adds, allowing hesitance to color his tone, “it is a relief and a blessing to find you whole and hale.”

 

He watches the blush creep up her neck. “Thank you, Petyr, for…” She searches for words. “ _handling_ everything,” she finishes. Her gaze is wary now. She knows this isn’t over, despite the lightness that has invaded the conversation.

 

“I live to serve, my queen,” he replies in lieu of a goodbye, bowing out of her bedroom. Petyr makes his way down the hallway, calling for a maid to attend to the queen as he leaves the royal apartments. Only when he is alone in his tower does he breathe. He sees Sansa’s face in his mind’s eye; he imagines what it will sound like when she tells him that she loves him. He imagines that, soon, she will allow him to know her as intimately as he knows himself. There still rests a familiar ache in the pit of his stomach, but he pushes it away. Her rejection means nothing. It is arbitrary. She is _his._ He is the only man she trusts; it cannot be so far a leap to love.

 

He will convince her, no matter the cost. He wants her, wants everything, until the curtains fall on this world and the stars from the heavens.

 

Petyr Baelish is done asking for what he wants.

 

Littlefinger will take it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @light-loves-the-dark on tumblr.


End file.
